My grandmother is Angela Torre.
Her orange peels sway from the kitchen ceiling. Her blankets, stitches dropped, cover the couch.
Torre is Tower. The strike of fate, inevitable change. The messy process of coming closer to yourself in free fall with the foundation rising up, to begin again.
My process is one of trying. It’s the practice of shedding perfectionism, and bringing curiosity to this existence. I make in the lineage of my maternal grandparents who immigrated to the US from Sicily and my paternal grandparents who tended land and made art in upstate NY.
Thank you for being here,
Rebecca
Her orange peels sway from the kitchen ceiling. Her blankets, stitches dropped, cover the couch.
Torre is Tower. The strike of fate, inevitable change. The messy process of coming closer to yourself in free fall with the foundation rising up, to begin again.
My process is one of trying. It’s the practice of shedding perfectionism, and bringing curiosity to this existence. I make in the lineage of my maternal grandparents who immigrated to the US from Sicily and my paternal grandparents who tended land and made art in upstate NY.
Thank you for being here,
Rebecca